The Blue Ribbon
by schizophrenic-clown
Summary: It is a dull Monday morning when John Watson meets a boy bleeding profusely from his throat. (Alternate Universe, Decapitation, Poetry)


It is a dull Monday morning when John Watson  
>meets a boy bleeding profusely from his throat.<br>The boy is young, stumbling around.  
>Blood staining the fabric of his black coat.<p>

John is the first to approach the boy.  
>Tries to calm him down, calls for a nurse.<br>The boy stands there, utterly frozen.  
>Whispers, "Please, doctor, it really hurts."<p>

The boy's hands are shaking. Refuses  
>to let John see the damage to his neck.<br>"Please," John pleads, a nurse joining  
>his side. "You need to let me check."<p>

The nurse touches the boy.  
>They take him to a room.<br>So careful, they set him down, prying  
>hands from neck, meeting a sick, dark doom.<p>

One filthy line is across the skin.  
>The boy will not keep still. Often stirs.<br>There is blood, muscle, bone.  
>Slowly, "Is it bad?" the boy slurs.<p>

John cannot see. More doctors approach.  
>Point at the sight of the boy's spine.<br>John rubs the boy's shoulder.  
>Tells him he will be just fine.<p>

The cut is deep.  
>It looks so disgusting.<br>It's black inside, and the dried blood  
>on the boy's face, his hands,<br>is already crusting.

John works. Everybody is fast.  
>The boy's breath is so off and on.<br>They patch, they mend, but someone  
>touches John's elbow, says, "Doctor, he's gone."<p>

The boy's name is Sherlock Holmes.  
>He is nineteen years old.<br>John accompanies him to the morgue  
>and acts like the saddest person in the world.<p>

"He wasn't going to make it," a fellow doctor tells.  
>"I wonder what happened." John stands over the body.<br>Stares at the open eyes. The gaze is ice-blue.  
>And a little bit gaudy.<p>

"No idea," John theorizes.  
>Slides the lids over the eyes.<br>John finds out, a few weeks later,  
>the boy hadn't really died.<p>

It is another Monday morning when John  
>sees him. He is running late for work<br>when he runs into the boy. Gets a face full  
>of wool and a wild, cheerful smirk.<p>

"Hello, Doctor Watson," the boy's voice chimes.  
>The smirk is happy, somewhat presented proudly.<br>John stares at the boy, at this Sherlock Holmes.  
>His hands shake, he blinks, he exclaims rather loudly.<p>

John can't remember what he had uttered,  
>what he had shouted, what he had said,<br>but he's sure it's relevant to Sherlock Holmes'  
>previous state of dead.<p>

Sherlock Holmes seems healthy—his skin white,  
>eyes bright, stitched together with many different hues.<br>John is scared, almost speechless. Wonders  
>how Sherlock's neck looks underneath his scarf of blue.<p>

Of course, he can't ask. _Your neck was  
>almost severed. <em>That would be impolite,  
>if he had dug his fingers underneath<br>Sherlock's scarf, given them both a fright.

"Come see me sometime,"  
>John whispers, very quietly.<br>"Professionally, I mean." Sherlock  
>smiles. Accepts the offer kindly.<p>

John doesn't see Sherlock Holmes  
>for a long time after that.<br>John's dreams are haunted by split necks,  
>droplets of blood that go <em>splat, splat, splat<em>.

Sweating cold and  
>breathing terribly, he's had a horrible nightmare.<br>He goes to stand, to get some bearing,  
>when he sees a head of black, curly hair.<p>

"Oh! I didn't mean to wake you!"  
>Sherlock Holmes says, fingers to his lips.<br>John holds out a hand. Tells him to stay.  
>Can practically see Sherlock's neck, the scarlet drips.<p>

"How did you get in here?" John says, once he calms down.  
>"You can't just wonder into somebody's home."<br>His voice is strong. Trying to be intimidating,  
>but he is laughed at by one Sherlock Holmes.<p>

John isn't getting anywhere with this boy, so he  
>puts a hand to his back. Shows him to the door.<br>Sherlock isn't wearing the scarf around his neck.  
>Only a blue choker. John points, says, "What's that for?"<p>

Sherlock pauses. Eyes wide, lips parted.  
>Softly, he replies, "Maybe I'll tell you some day."<br>John is still touching Sherlock's back. Hears Sherlock add,  
>"I think you're pretty cute… by the way."<p>

John knows he shouldn't laugh, but he is.  
>Sherlock starts to chuckle, too.<br>John begins to flirt. It's a subconscious reaction.  
>"I really like Thai food."<p>

"Thai food, it is, then," Sherlock says,  
>John nods. They smile.<br>After seeing each other off, John goes back to bed,  
>not knowing he wouldn't see Sherlock for quite a while.<p>

They never get Thai food,  
>at least not that soon.<br>John eagerly waits,  
>his hopes blowing up like a little balloon.<p>

At work, he peers around corners  
>and skips out on lunch.<br>When he walks home,  
>his ears perk every time leaves crunch.<p>

Eventually, he grows tired,  
>believes he was lead on.<br>One night, getting ready  
>for bed, he hears a soft, "John."<p>

Turns around. Sees Sherlock,  
>dark-eyed and pale.<br>John touches him, feels the skin  
>as if he were reading Braille.<p>

"What's wrong?" John asks,  
>scanning, reading the look behind those eyes.<br>John is scared, if only for a moment,  
>at the possibility of Sherlock about to cry.<p>

"I'm fine," Sherlock reasons,  
>his hands shaking,<br>taking hold of John.  
>"Actually, I feel like I'm breaking."<p>

John takes care of Sherlock the best he can,  
>although his best is just shy of mediocre.<br>Sherlock goes to bed, out like a light.  
>John is weary of that blue choker.<p>

It's around Sherlock's neck again,  
>wrapped like a blue vein.<br>John stares at Sherlock's coat now,  
>seeing the tell-tale signs of red stains.<p>

Sticking to the collar.  
>John grows suspicious.<br>Sherlock is here. He hasn't died.  
>This is all a little fictitious.<p>

John goes to bed. Lying  
>beside Sherlock. Feeling bad.<br>Doesn't know what's going on.  
>Thinks he might be going mad.<p>

In the morning, Sherlock is  
>there. Wakes with a smile.<br>After a breakfast of nothing,  
>John won't see Sherlock for a while.<p>

He wants to be proven wrong,  
>wants to see Sherlock.<br>He wants to hear his voice,  
>wants to hear him talk.<p>

Sherlock is so young.  
>John doesn't know why<br>he's so affected by someone  
>who he had seen die.<p>

Except Sherlock isn't dead.  
>At least, John doesn't think.<br>Sherlock is alive. He's at John's  
>work now, asking him for a drink.<p>

John is frozen, looks at  
>the nurses and doctors.<br>They stare at John, at Sherlock.  
>Either they see them both, or they're really good actors.<p>

John proceeds cautiously,  
>accepts his offer with a brief nod.<br>Sherlock tells him a time, turns on his heel,  
>and a nurse remarks, "Well, isn't that odd?"<p>

John quirks an eyebrow,  
>asks for clarification with a raise of his head.<br>The nurse only shrugs and looks at  
>Sherlock's retreating form. "I thought he was dead."<p>

"Apparently not!" John says.  
>Maybe a bit too rude.<br>The nurse exits, he scowls,  
>decides he's in a terrible mood.<p>

He couldn't tell if Sherlock's  
>neck was wrapped with the blue choker again,<br>but John can explicitly remember  
>the crusty remains of blood stains.<p>

Doesn't he wash his coat? John wonders.  
>Gets upset at that thought.<br>He doesn't understand anything.  
>Sherlock is probably something he's not.<p>

Sherlock had told him to be  
>at the pub at a quarter to nine.<br>John doesn't know Sherlock's plan,  
>but hopes it's relevant to being wined and dined.<p>

Sherlock looks so nice with  
>a gray shirt and his dark coat.<br>John is all bubbly and full of  
>materials which make up love notes.<p>

They don't drink a lot.  
>Barely at all.<br>Sherlock kisses John,  
>and John holds his waist, so small.<p>

Sherlock is wearing a blue ribbon  
>around his neck tonight.<br>John wraps his fingers around the  
>bow and considers it just right.<p>

They kiss some more,  
>their lips raw and red.<br>John tugs Sherlock from the pub, calls for a cab.  
>"Let me take you to bed."<p>

Sherlock appears to float.  
>He is full of fluffy air.<br>John kisses him in the back seat,  
>his fingers finding purchase in his black hair.<p>

At John's flat, they remove  
>part of their clothing.<br>Neither of them knows  
>where it'll be come morning.<p>

John is careful, lips tender,  
>marking the white flesh of Sherlock.<br>Sherlock is whimpering, toes curling,  
>his eyes on the clock.<p>

"John," he breathes,  
>"I have to tell you something."<br>His fingers touch the buttons of his shirt.  
>John feels ready to sing.<p>

"What is it?" he asks,  
>helping Sherlock undress.<br>They kiss, but John stops,  
>sensing Sherlock under some stress.<p>

"What is it?" John repeats.  
>He stares at Sherlock's face,<br>then at his bare chest. Can't help his eyes  
>when they fall on the ribbon that looks so out of place.<p>

"You said you were going  
>to tell me some day."<br>John points at the blue thread.  
>"Could some day be today?"<p>

Sherlock contemplates.  
>He doesn't answer verbally,<br>tells John with his body he'll reveal  
>when they reach their finale.<p>

So, they touch each other,  
>rick-rock, and slide.<br>John doesn't think about that time  
>Sherlock broke into his house or when he had died.<p>

Their minds are full of thunder, lightning,  
>and overwhelming bliss.<br>They come undone with shaking hands  
>and a sloppy, wet kiss.<p>

Lying side by side, John smiles at Sherlock.  
>Gestures with a hand. "Now?"<br>It takes a minute for Sherlock to  
>come around, to give his head a bow.<p>

After  
>a cough,<br>John unwinds the blue ribbon  
>and watches Sherlock's head fall off.<p> 


End file.
